


already choking on my pride

by romanticallyinept



Series: let me be your killer king [2]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Elliott is in over his head, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Filming, Fist Fights, Hand Jobs, Inappropriate Erections, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mirage | Elliott Witt Being an Idiot, Power Dynamics, Renee is a kinky bitch and you can't convince me otherwise, Semi-Public Sex, Stuttering, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 12:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: “Are youarousedright now?”Licking his lips, Elliott opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Park’s looking at him, really looking at him, his gaze roving over Elliott’s body, from his face down his chest and lingering on his groin. His jumpsuit is tight, form-fitting, and it’s hiding absolutely nothing.“Guilty,” he rasps.Kinktober 2019 fill for:19.Public| Formal Wear | Straightjacket | Cock-Warming21. Bukakke |Breath Play| Suspension | Branding27.Exhibitionism/Voyeurism| Degradation | Gun Play |Against a wall28.Leather | Stripping/Teasing | Vore |Humiliation





	already choking on my pride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychthriller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychthriller/gifts).

> In regards to the dubious consent and under-negotiated kink tags:
> 
> There's a sex scene which isn't verbally consented to. There's non-verbal consent, after the introduction of a kink that hasn't been discussed before. If that's triggering, or not your cup of tea, please take care of yourself and don't read!!
> 
> psychthriller: your string of comments inspired this fic, so I thought it only appropriate to gift it to you. I hope it lives up to the hype!

__

_Oh, all of these minutes passing, sick of feeling used  
If you wanna break these walls down, you're gonna get bruised  
Now my neck is open wide, begging for a fist around it  
Already choking on my pride, so there's no use crying about it._  
-Halsey

* * *

As far as teammates go, Elliott has his favorites. He has a soft spot for Ajay (for D.O.C. really, because that bot has patched him up more times than he can count). He’d rather fight with Pathfinder than against him, and Renee is an unmatched asset in the field in terms of pulling sneaky shit. And, after Park joins the team, he quickly becomes one of Elliott’s favorites, too. 

(Elliott’s favoritism is not at all influenced by the fact that he gets to see past the cold demeanor that Park fronts at everyone else. Nor is it influenced by how goddamn hot his boyfriend is. Or by the shy, careful way they’ve been getting to know each other, navigating through Park’s dislike of being touched and Elliott’s own issues with commitment. No correlation, not at all). 

That’s not to say he doesn’t like the others - Bloodhound is merciless, and their tracking information is a wonderful asset. Makoa is a force to be reckoned with, and Alexander is fucking _terrifying_, but he’s efficient. 

The point is, Elliott has his preferences, the people he knows he works well with. And this particular team composition isn’t doing anyone any favors. 

Natalie is jumpmaster, and she’s intent on dropping in Skyhook. She’s one of the few who _likes_ the angles of the place, likes putting up fences just behind ziplines and then laughing gleefully when people walk through them. And Octavio has a penchant for bouncing from roof to roof, telegraphing their position to the whole fucking map but managing to disappear once the calvary rolls in. He’s not much of a team player, and Natalie is young enough that Elliott’s always _worried_ about her, and it’s just not a good matchup, okay? Wanting to coddle one teammate and kill the other just isn’t a recipe for success.

He skids off a rooftop, too busy looking behind him to stick the landing. Natalie and Octavio touch down a few buildings away, because of course they do, and he gets to hear her excitedly ping a set of body armor and a Wingman that he’d move to go grab if he wasn’t on the other side of the fucking city. 

He sighs, running through the nearest door. There’s a pile of ammo and an extended light mag in the corner, and he’s just managed to snag a basic backpack when he hears another door open.

Elliott freezes, eyes darting around the floor he’s on frantically. There’s not a weapon in sight, not even a fucking _grenade_ that he can throw to buy himself some time. In a last bout of desperation, he sends a hologram out across the floor, hoping it’ll be enough of a distraction for him to be able to sneak out of the building.

He has no such luck, of course, because he’s an unlucky motherfucker.

“Do people really fall for that?” calls a familiar voice. “It is painfully obvious that it is a fake.”

“You’re obviously a fake,” Elliott mutters, more to himself than anything else, and grits his teeth as Park rounds the corner. He notices immediately that the other man is unarmed as well, his drone still tucked away in the holster on his pack, so he hasn’t even had time to recon, much less find a weapon.

Elliott _hates_ fistfighting, but there aren’t many other options. “Listen,” he says, raising his fists and throwing a few shadow boxing punches, “I bam-badam-bamb… I fool plenty of people with those. Also, for the record, I’d be fine with both of us going our separate ways and not letting this pleasant encounter devolve into…”

Park moves quickly, throwing something in Elliott’s direction. He dodges out of instinct, already looking for cover from a grenade, but it’s not a grenade that Park threw. It’s a fucking _scope_ that clatters into the corner, and in the brief moment that Elliott is distracted looking at it, Park tackles him. 

“Fuck,” Elliott hisses as his back hits the ground. Park is a sold weight on top of him, but he manages to grab a handful of that stupid jacket and shove, hard. The maneuver clears the space above him, but Park twists to land a sharp fist to his side as Elliott’s scrambling to his feet.

“And here I thought we were friends,” Elliott quips, mock-wounded. He doesn’t let himself wrap an arm around his side, like he wants to. He knows how much of a predator Park is. Instead, he rolls his shoulders back as they circle each other, pinging his location just in case either Natalie or Octavio develop enough good sense to head to his rescue. “I made us bracelets and everything. Really sending me some mixed messages, kid.”

Park’s face contorts, his lip curling into something like a snarl. “There are no friends in the ring,” he spits. “Only allies and enemies. And right now, we are enemies.”

“Frenemies are a thing,” Elliott offers. There’s no response to his ping over the comms - he’s on his own, and since none of Park’s teammates have shown their faces, either, he wagers that it’s just going to be the two of them. A fair fight, on paper, at last. “And, if I’m being honest, I definitely prefer the ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, if you know what I mean. It’s a win-win! Everyone’s happy.”

The next thing Park throws at him is the drone, and it moves quickly enough that it actually clips Elliott in the jaw. He bats it away, which is a mistake, because Park takes the opportunity to get into his space again, landing two quick jabs to his ribs and an uppercut to his solar plexus that knocks the wind right out of him.

He stumbles back, and Park gets greedy, covering more ground than Elliott gives up. It’s not a blow that’s going to win him the fight, but the trickster still manages to toss out a hook that catches Park square in the mouth. His hand comes back smeared with blood, and guilt pangs in Elliott’s chest, but this is the goddamn _arena_. There’s no room for that. 

He hesitates, though, doesn’t capitalize on the brief pause Park gives to touch his mouth. And Park catches that, because of course he does, and he doesn’t seem to have any of the same qualms as Elliott does, because his next move is a kick that sends Elliott stumbling back the rest of the way, his back hitting the wall behind him.

He barely has a chance to register how much his ribs fucking hurt before Park’s on him again, in his space, reaching up to pin Elliott to the wall with a hand around his throat. He’s not gentle about it, either. Elliott’s breath catches halfway through an inhale as those strong, dextrous fingers close around his airway. Desperate, he pings his location again - fuck, he’s going to lay into his teammates, later, mark his fucking words - but there’s nothing. 

Park’s grip tightens, just a hair, and Elliott very suddenly realizes two things.

One, the hand around his throat is bare. Park’s touching him, skin on skin, for the first time literally _ever_.

Two, Elliott’s hard enough to fucking pound nails.

He shifts, attempting at subtlety while his vision starts going spotty. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, and his breathlessness is only being exacerbated by the fact that all the blood in his body is rushing south. A groan tears itself from his throat, but it’s barely a vibration in his vocal chords, not even a sound that passes his lips.

Elliott blinks, and then, inexplicably, the grip around his neck softens just enough. He gasps, the air burning his lungs as he sucks it in. The dizziness doubles, and for a moment, the world tilts. He expects Park to let him fall to the floor and finish him there, but the final blow doesn’t come. Instead, he hears the hacker’s voice, barely audible over his own labored breaths.

“Are you _aroused_ right now?”

Licking his lips, Elliott opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Park’s looking at him, really looking at him, his gaze roving over Elliott’s body, from his face down his chest and lingering on his groin. His jumpsuit is tight, form-fitting, and it’s hiding absolutely nothing. 

“Guilty,” he rasps. “Sorry. Is it weird? It’s a little weird. I promise I didn’t mean to…”

The hand around his throat tightens, cutting off anything else Elliott was going to say. “Shut up,” Park hisses. His other hand, the one that’s not leaving bruises on Elliott’s neck, slams against the wall next to his head, and that’s what it takes for the trickster to realize that he’s not the only one who’s _affected_ by the situation.

Park leans in close, close enough that Elliott can see exactly how dilated his pupils are. “You’re _filthy_,” he says, and his voice is pitched a whole octave lower than normal, his accent thicker than Elliott’s ever heard it. “People are _watching_, Elliott. Is this how you want them to see you?”

Somehow, the honest answer to that question is both a resounding ‘yes’ and a resounding ‘no’, all at the same time, but Elliott doesn’t even attempt to voice a thought that complex. All he can manage is a whine, high-pitched and desperate, and the slightest up-and-down motion of his head which just barely manages to pass as a nod. Whatever Park wants, whatever he has in mind for this, for them, Elliott’s on board.

“Filthy,” Park repeats, his voice a purr. His fingers tighten, briefly, and Elliott’s vision goes soft and feathery around the edges, his mind hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. Then the hacker’s hand drops to lay against Elliott’s chest, leaving him able to breathe normally again.

“Shit,” he bites out, his voice more gravel than anything else. Distantly, he can hear the announcer telling them the ring is on round 2, and Elliott hasn’t looked at the map since he landed. He’s got no idea where the ring is closing, if they’re even in it at all - Elliott realizes that Park could take off at any moment without finishing anything (at least, not in the fun way). He groans. “C’mon, kid. _Please_.”

He manages half a breath before Park’s hand slides between his legs, pressing up with enough force that it almost hurts. But Elliott’s no stranger to riding the thin line between pleasure and pain, and the contact, even through the layers of his jumpsuit, makes his body sing. 

“You will come for me like this,” Park says, and then authority in his voice makes Elliott shiver.

“Y-yeah, probably gonna.”

Park smirks. The expression is almost cruel, and Elliott’s positive that he’s got some wires crossed in his head because that shouldn’t he hot. He moans, his head smacking back against the wall.

The action bares his throat, and it’s a matter of seconds before PArk’s other hand closes back around it. He doesn’t press, and Elliott is grateful, but it’s hard enough to breathe as it is and actually losing consciousness doesn’t sound like the fun kind of kinky.

“Need m-more,” Elliott stutters, and the admission makes a flush spread across his cheeks. He’s not in his twenties anymore, and while a little over-the-pants actions is all well and good, it’s not enough to make him come. And he really, really wants to come.

“Like this,” Park repeats, “or not at all.”

A whine slips out of Elliott’s mouth, unbidden. He _can’t_. He physically can’t, not without more, not without…

With his thumb, Park turns Elliott’s head to the side, a fraction of an inch. It’s barely a motion at all, but it’s enough. It directs Elliott’s gaze to the spot just over Park’s shoulder, instead of his face, and once he looks he’s met with the sight of the drone, hovering just behind the other man, glowing faintly green.

Watching.

_Recording_.

Elliott’s breath hitches when he realizes, his hips jerking forward of their own accord. Park just laughs, soft and only slightly mocking.

“Such a pretty picture,” he murmurs, just as his deft fingers ease the straining zipper down over Elliott’s groin. “One I will enjoy watching for some time to come.”

Elliott makes a desperate sound as Park’s fingers slip inside his jumpsuit, bypassing his briefs in favor of wrapping around his aching cock. Then Park leans in, close enough that Elliott can feel the soft curve of his grin against his cheek.

“Everyone’s watching,” he murmurs, his breath soft against Elliott’s skin. “Come for us.”

Both hands squeeze against Elliott’s flesh, and the world goes white.

* * *

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Elliott’s team doesn’t take the win. Park’s doesn’t, either. It’s a consolation prize that Elliott doesn’t feel he needs, because his throat still aches and his briefs are sticky and sure, wins are nice, but the _experience_ Park gave him was pretty damn nice, too.

The whole crew is reboarding the ship, all of them in various physical and emotional states. No one is particularly talkative, but they usually aren’t. Without Elliott’s running commentary, they’re a relatively quiet bunch. So it’s surprising when Renee falls into step beside him, nudging their shoulders together in her version of affectionate camaraderie. Elliott tosses her a grin, paired with a set of finger guns.

“Clutch win,” he says. “Though the finisher at the end was a little flashy for you, wasn’t it?”

Renee’s mouth quirks into a smile, and Elliott’s gut twists. The expression resembles Park’s smirk a little too closely for comfort, and his brain has come to associate that look with _things_.

Absolutely nothing gets better when Renee leans in, just close enough to murmur, “And that display in SKyhook was a little kinky for you, wasn’t it?”

She doesn’t give Elliott a chance to respond. Instead, she jogs ahead of him, slowing down next to Park this time. Elliott’s not close enough to hear them, but he can see Renee gesture at the drone, and then hold out a gloved hand for Park to fist-bump. Something curls in Elliott’s gut, and he picks up the pace, catching up to them just in time to hear the tail end of Renee’s sentence.

“...get me a personal copy?”

Park looks over his shoulder, meeting Elliott’s gaze. “I think that can be arranged,” he answers, and Elliott’s face heats.

He’s _fucked_.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who follow me for anything other than Cryptage, I'm sorry. Let me get it out of my system and I'll return to my other pairings... eventually. 
> 
> In case you want to know what inspired this fic (and the one that's coming after it) go read the comments on [don't care about winning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20889221). Dear lord. 
> 
> Got ideas for the boys? Something you wanna see in this 'verse (or another, I'm flexible, and I'm a Cryptage slut now so I'm dedicated)? Drop it in the comments, and at the very least, I'll engage in the filth there.


End file.
